


In Need of a Little Healing

by Crimson_Voltaire



Series: your voice inside my head [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Healing, Implied Past Emotional Trauma, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, snuggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 15:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10856526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: The dark of the night is when the pain bleeds through. Queenie can only see snippets of the agony playing through his head, but those are enough. She's almost glad she can't see more, because she's sure it would be enough to drive her mad.In other words, Graves has nightmares, Queenie comforts him.





	In Need of a Little Healing

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and edited this in like, an hour at around midnight. Please forgive any errors.  
> Some short and sweet Graves/Queenie because there isn't enough of this out there. I don't know why he's in the Goldsteins' apartment, I don't know where Tina is (probably sleeping), this was just written as is. :)

Queenie is woken from a wonderful dream by a muffled scream from the room down the hall. Immediately, her mind is filled with pain.

The images aren’t complete, thank the heavens. Queenie isn’t sure she could maintain her sanity if they were, but they’re enough. And then, they’re gone, suddenly disappearing without a trace. There’s a thump, a brief flash of pain across her mind and then the oddly phantom sensation of eavesdropping on someone wrestling with their sheets on the floor.

Queenie rolls out of bed, tiptoeing down the hall and poking her head into the darkened room. The curtains are still open, moonlight filtering in to illuminate the scene in an eerie silver. It bounces off the mass of writhing white sheets on the hardwood, giving the entire thing a surreal quality.

She creeps into the space, stoops down beside the bundle and rips the sheets off in a quick, efficient motion. She then neatly dances out of the way as the body in the sheets comes flying after her, teeth bared and eyes wild. He’s still caught in the in between, not quite awake but not quite dreaming, reacting on fear alone. Those dark, coffee-brown eyes search the room wildly, looking for something that Queenie is not.  
  
“It’s alright, Percy,” Queenie whispers, “It’s alright. You’re safe now.”  
  
Graves’ half buttoned nightshirt clings to him with sweat, almost translucent in the dim light. His rib cage expands and contracts in great, heaving pants, driven by adrenalin more than exertion. Graves is tense for a moment longer, and then his body sags backwards in relief, limp like a string.

Queenie surges forward now, to catch him before he falls. Big, calloused hands tangle in the silk of her nightwear, the roughness of his skin catching on the fine fabric. Queenie wraps her arms about his wide shoulders, one hand tangling in the sweaty mop of his obsidian hair, the other finding the small of his back and pulling him close. His forehead rests against hers, their breath sharing the same space. Graves closes his eyes and trembles, stays as Queenie holds him until his body stops quivering and the adrenalin finally bleeds out of his system. Then, he looks up, those dark eyes filled with sorrow and shame.

“Queenie, I’m sorry.”

Something like anger creates a lump in her throat at his apology. Graves apologizes for everything; for his nightmares, for his flashbacks, for his presence. Like he’s a burden on them, like his trauma is something to be ashamed of. The sour taste of hatred bubbles up in Queenie’s throat. She’d give anything to find the fool that made Graves think he was weak for feeling and break the bastard. But Queenie can’t right now, she has Percival in her arms and he needs her.

“Don’t apologize, honey,” she murmurs, tugging him in again, until his forehead is now pressed into her trapezius, “Don’t _ever_ apologize for this.”

Graves stiffens, she can feel his muscles tensing beneath his shirt. “But I-”

“But nothing,” Queenie interjects, “You’ve been to hell and back, more than once, Percival Graves. You’ve lived through so much and you’ve come through the other side. You don’t survive that kind of thing unchanged.”

She begins to card her fingers through his hair again, scratching her nails against his scalp. Percival shudders, leaning into her touch like a great cat.

“I just… I thought I was getting _better_ ,” Graves admits after a moment of silence, voice small like a child’s and so, very quiet.

Queenie was always quite sure she could never be undone by a single sentence, but the simplicity and open vulnerability in that statement causes Queenie’s heart to shatter. It tinkles like glass around their bare feet.

Graves must sense her pain, because suddenly his own arms are around her slender waist, and she finds herself buried in his chest, nose filled with the scent of his sweat and him. It isn’t unpleasant. Queenie takes a few, shuddering breaths, breathing him in, aware that she’s crying suddenly but unable to stem the tears.

“You _are_ getting better, Percy,” she finally stutters after a few faltering starts, “But healing takes time. You can’t berate yourself for this, it’s part of the process. Please, please give yourself the time to heal. _Please_.”

Queenie can feel him breathing against her, the powerful expansion and contraction of his diaphragm, the way the air flows through his body, the dull thud of his heartbeat beneath her fingers. He keeps her close for a moment longer, and Queenie can feel the heat of his tears against her scalp, the quiet hitch of his torso. Then, Graves takes the smashed pieces of himself and begins to put them back together in her arms. After a long moment, he exhales a shaky affirmation. 

“Alright,” he whispers, “Alright.”  
  
Percival’s hands move to her elbows, rough thumbs brushing over her cool skin. Queenie pulls away do she can look up into those brown eyes. Graves offers her the tiniest of smiles.  
  
“Thank you, Queenie. Go back to bed, I need a shower.”

Queenie reaches up, on her tippy toes, and places the smallest of pecks on his lips. Her fingers find his and she squeezes, before turning on her heel and slipping towards the door. 

“Come to my room when you’re done,” she orders, looking back over her shoulder, “You shouldn’t have to be alone tonight.” _Not tonight or ever_ .  
  
Graves stands there, in the moonlight for a moment, before he drops his eyes and grins, a hand coming up to the back of his neck. Queenie giggles, sauntering out of the room and back down the hall to her own cooling sheets.

Twenty minutes later, a pair of shower warmed arms slip about her waist, the small bed dipping beneath an added weight. Queenie is just awake, barely hanging on by a thread but she has the wear-with-all to turn in those powerful forearms and snuggle close into his chest. He’s put on fresh pyjamas, now smelling of soft linens and soap.  
  
_Thank you_ , Percival murmurs in his head, face pressed into her golden curls, _thank you for everything_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment or come scream at me at luminis-infinite@tumblr.com. Cheers.


End file.
